


The Man from His Past

by englisharpen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anderson Is An Idiot, Anderson tries, BAMF Mycroft, Big Brother Mycroft, Faked Suicide, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mycroft To The Rescue, Not really an OC but the name is mine, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Platonic Relationships, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englisharpen/pseuds/englisharpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotland Yard has arrested the Serbian that tortured Sherlock and the man ends up taunting him with it. Since the others don't know anything of his time away, he tries to deny everything that the man is saying. Lestrade and John are confused. Anderson doesn't help, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding the Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief introduction in which Sherlock hides his pain (or tries to) in different scenes of his return.

As soon as Sherlock got rescued from that horrible cell in Serbia, he decided he never wanted to talk about it again. Mycroft disagreed. "Sherlock, it'll haunt you forever until you face it. You were tortured, and that doesn't just leave. You'll have scars forever. Hell, if you don't get past it, you'll get post traumatic stress disorder. I heard your little doctor already has it, do you want both of you to suffer from PTSD?" Sherlock was completely tuning him out. "How does this shirt look?" Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock!" He finally swung around to face Mycroft, angry. "Mycroft, I won't have PTSD or Anorexia or whatever disorder you were talking about!" Mycroft snorted. "How can you be so sure?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll be deleting it, obviously." He pulled on his signature Belstaff coat and blue scarf. "That is unwise, Sherlock. Even if you delete it, it will be behind just another locked door in your mind palace, how can you be so sure that it won't break loose in your head?" Sherlock waved him off. "Whatever. Where is John?" 

Sherlock knew he should have expected it. Well, he had expected John to hit him, yell, scream, something like that. He had been aware he would have gotten another girlfriend, and without Sherlock to ruin his relationships, he would probably get to the proposal. He just didn't mean to interrupt it when it happened. Or maybe he did. He wasn't sure yet. What he really wasn't expecting was John to completely tackle him. He felt some of his back wounds reopen from where Mycroft's men had bandaged it and tried not to flinch as he was slammed into the ground, but he knew he had. After getting a broken nose from John, split lip, and reopened back wounds, and watching John and his girlfriend Mary drive away without a last glance, he felt a little hurt. He pushed it away. John didn't know he had been tort-- in Serbia. And of course John would need time to recover.  
He was human. He had feelings, emotions. 

Sherlock knew he flinched violently when 'Greg' Lestrade pulled him into a horribly tight embrace. It was better than what John's reaction had been, though. Lestrade pulled away as Sherlock grimaced. "You okay?" He asked awkwardly. Sherlock nodded. "I'm fine. I just need to go see Molly after I visit Baker Street."  
Greg's brow furrowed. "Why? Injuries? What happened?" Sherlock stood straighter. "Nothing. No. No injuries, nothing happened, besides me faking my own Suicide, and leaving for three years." Sherlock inwardly sighed. 'And getting tortured for three weeks...' He thought. "I just need to visit Molly to tell her I've returned." Lestrade nodded. "I'm surprised she wasn't more sad about your fake death. Maybe she finally gave up on you!" Greg laughed, slapping Sherlock rather hardly on the back. Sherlock wasn't prepared, and fell with an ungraceful yelp. He quickly got up, but Lestrade gave him an odd look. 

Mrs. Hudson was the best about it. She nearly screamed her bloody head off, but she noticed when he flinched away from her hug that he was injured. Thank god, that for once in her life, Mrs. Hudson minded her own business and didn't say anything, but a quick peck on the cheek and, "You need to eat more food, young man! You are all skin and bones!" He thanked her sincerely and walked to St. Barth's to see Molly.

When Molly caught sight of him, she slapped him and then started crying. "You idiot, you bloody idiot... you... you made me keep it a secret from John and Lestrade, even Anderson and Sally! I'm no good at-- oh god! What happened?" She asked, noticing his bloody nose and split lip. "John." Sherlock said, giving a laugh that turned into more of a cough. Molly quickly began getting supplies out and Sherlock started taking off his coat and shirt. Molly turned red and didn't say anything, obviously not realizing what he was doing. He fully took off his shirt and walks over to where Molly was turning redder than a fire engine. "Oh, Sherlock..." She began, nearly swooning. Sherlock cut her off impatiently. "I think when John tackled me he opened up my back wounds, I need you to fix them up and not speak a word of this to anyone, ever." Molly flushed, having an epiphany. "Oh. Right. I need you to lay down here..." She motioned at the stretcher. Sherlock did, and rolled his eyes when Molly let out a horrified squeak at the sight of his back. "What happened?" Sherlock grunted. "Nothing. Please hurry, I can feel my breathing getting harder." Molly nodded silently and quickly and painlessly as possible, stitched him back up. When she was done Sherlock groaned and slowly put back on his shirt, scarf and coat.  
Molly still looked troubled.  
"Sherlock, those scars on your back... they looked like they were caused by a whip or a pipe... as in, torture..."  
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes."  
Molly frowned. "On you."  
"Yes."  
"Sherlock, did you get--"  
"Yes."  
Molly gave a sharp intake of breath.  
"Sherlock, are you okay? Because-"  
"I'm fine, Molly."  
Sherlock loathed the way his voice sounded raspy and cracked. Molly looked ready to cry. "Just don't tell anyone."  
Molly loathed the way Sherlock trusted her not to tell John and Lestrade things they really ought to know.

After John had forgiven him on the bomb-train car, Sherlock though he'd be able to delete Serbia and everything that happened while he was there. Instead, as Mycroft predicted, he ignored the mild PTSD that he had gotten. He woke up constantly throughout the nights (That is, when he did sleep) screaming, gasping, covered in sweat, or begging the Serbian to stop. Mrs. Hudson had been suspicious at first, but he confirmed to her that it wasn't a big deal. Luckily, she couldn't understand Serbian, so she couldn't understand the plea for help he screamed every night.  
And the traumatic stress just kept getting worse, until it got the point where Sherlock began leaving the flat and going to a park bench looking out on The Thames until morning, letting Mrs. Hudson get the well deserved rest. 

Of course, Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson were quite convinced that he was back on drugs, and Greg Lestrade was worried half to death. Ever since Lestrade saved Sherlock's life from overdose when he was just young and put him on the path to being the world's first and only Consulting Detective, he had to deal with Sherlock-before-John. Sherlock-after-John was much more pleasant to deal with.  
When Sherlock came to a crime scene with huge, dark circles under his eyes, Anderson nearly laughed out loud. "Evidence! He isn't sleeping, because he's up all night using!" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No he's not!" Then, quieter, "Sherlock, you aren't, right?" When he got no reply and Sally burst out, nearly crying with laughter, he swung around to find that Sherlock had completely fallen asleep. His eyes narrowed. "Sherlock?" He shook him, but all he got was a muffled grunt. Molly and Anderson were on the floor, crying hysterically, and one of the new Scotland Yard officers looked over, amused.  
They had put Sherlock on the couch and let him sleep. He needed it.  
When they had finally solved the case, (given the clues that Sherlock had previously found, but that's not important) Sally went to go lock up and found Sherlock, breathing heavily with his head leaned back, sitting on the couch. Her first reaction was that Sherlock had done something. After all, he was in Lestrade's office, with him computer that he could easily unlock. She looked at Sherlock again. He hadn't even noticed her standing right next to him, which was odd. "Hey, Freak!" She half-shouted. Sherlock jumped up faster than she expected, flinging himself to the ground and screaming out in some foreign language. Her eyes widened and she stepped back, while Sherlock swung out blindly, still not opening his eyes. "FREAK! What the bloody hell are you doing!?" She finally grabbed him by the shoulders and his eyes popped open, wide with fear and horror. He stopped screaming and he started standing back up. "Donovan." Sally's eyes were wide with accusations. "What the fuck was that?!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't know what you mean. By the way your old boyfriend is dating your sister." Sally scowled at him. "Shut up. What was that?! What did you do?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You think I hacked into Lestrade's computer." Sally nodded. "I know you did. What I want to know is why you were screaming in that language."  
Without another word, the 'Freak' walked out of the office. 

"Lestrade?" Sally walked up to Greg, looking slightly upset. Lestrade turned to her. "What? It's nearly midnight? Another case?" Sally shifted uncomfortably. "No... I was watching the security feed in your office because I thought the Freak hacked into your laptop." Greg raised an eyebrow. "And?" Sally suddenly looked very interested in the wall behind him. "Well, I think you should watch it. Like, now." Greg's mouth quirked up. "Alright... are you staying?" Sally rubbed her elbow. "No. I already saw it. I'm off on security, I'll be back later." Lestrade rolled his eyes as she walked out. He flipped on the security camera to his office and clicked the time zone that Sherlock had fallen asleep.  
It took twenty minutes until the sleeping Sherlock actually started tossing and turning. His eyebrows scrunched together as Sherlock began mumbling things in another language. Russian? Slavic? Wasn't that like, Serbian? Greg didn't study different languages that much, but he had some reminder. Sherlock let out an ear-piercing agonized scream and jolted up, but he didn't wake up. Instead he began... begging? Lestrade paused the video and quickly looked up the Slavic language. He started translating everything that Sherlock was saying (Or screaming, really) and translated this:  
"Please... I can't remember... I don't know... NO! (Scream) Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop! STOP! PLEASE! (Scream) Let me sleep! I don't know! Please... please stop... (Screaming)" It went on for a while and Greg finally stopped once he realized that it didn't end. Nightmares on the sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. Who knew? When Sherlock finally stopped, it looked like he really had fallen into a dreamless sleep, besides the occasional "Please... I don't know... Stop" and scream. Then Sally came in, and those events played out.  
Lestrade sat there for a long time, thinking. His first thought was this- Sherlock has post traumatic stress. After about five seconds he pushed that away and came up with another, better conclusion- Sherlock had nightmares. Like everyone else.  
"What do you think?" Sally asked. Anderson had seen it as well, and he was trying to deduce like Sherlock could, but failing rather sadly. Lestrade snorted. "So he has nightmares. No matter what he might say, he is human." Sally nodded, still obviously upset. "So... you say he was begging for someone to let him sleep? And to... 'stop'? That sounds... wow." Anderson laughed. "We don't have enough clues. Let's see what else we can find out."  
Lestrade sighed. "Somehow, I doubt after this Sherlock will let us find out any more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all these hits and kudos! I know it's lame, but I never thought I'd get them. Now here we are at six. XD


	2. A Thermos and a Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is talking to a John that isn't there. Lestrade and Molly are worried. There is a beginning of a new case interrogation. Sherlock does something kind. Anderson and Sally are still no help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on Chapter one! I didn't think people would actually like my fanfics. XD Chapters will be longer from now on, as well, so remember that it might take a bit longer to post. Now, to the fanfic!

Sherlock was completely ignoring his newfound PTSD.  
Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing he had ever done, but he refused to acknowledge that he was having nightmares and flashbacks about something as simple as a beating. After the incident at Scotland Yard (How humiliating) with Sally Donovan, of all people, he decided that he would drink tea with more sugar and less Chamomile tea so he'd stay awake during cases. It was humiliating knowing that Sally had heard him screaming and probably crying out for someone. No, he wasn't letting that happen again. 

He was still up at three AM when he got the text from Lestrade.  
Sorry if you are asleep we have a case right now if you want to come or are awake get to Scotland Yard my office  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the horrible grammar and punctuation, but answered almost immediately.  
Coming. Better not be dull. -SH  
Making a cup of sugar filled tea to keep him hyped, Sherlock threw on his coat and scarf and rushed out.

He was freezing cold, one because it was Winter, and two because there weren't any cabs and he had to walk to Scotland Yard despite the snow. There weren't many people out, save be the drunks and junkies left, not knowing exactly how they got where they were. Sherlock felt a pang as he saw a man, sitting in an alleyway in a heap of snow next to bins. He looked half starved and completely high, but Sherlock remembered his own days as a junkie and paused for a moment.  
I am a sociopath.  
I don't care about him.

Sherlock felt his legs slow down as he got closer. 'Stop it, Sherlock. Sociopath. High-functioning sociopath. If you wanted someone to care about everything, you should've brought John.' Sherlock felt a pang as all his 'John' memories started resurfacing. He realised he had completely stopped walking just by the alleyway the man was in. 

'Curse you, John, for making your personality a part of my life and subconsciously forcing me to do nice and caring things!'

Sherlock finally sighed, rolled his eyes, and walked into the café bar next to the alley. They had incredible 24-hour-service, mostly because drunks always ended up refusing to leave 'till dawn and antisocial freaks like Sherlock needed to eat to survive, too. Sherlock ignored the call of, "Heyy... pretty lady... come on over!" From the hopeless drunk sitting at the bar. He did, however, try not to flush when the man continued, "Curly! Pretty coat lady..." And realised the man was talking about him. He hurried to get out once he was done ordering and receiving his things.

Five minutes after Sherlock left that street and hurried to Scotland Yard, the drugs wore off of the junkie and he woke to a thermos of tea and a quick note.  
"If you don't like this flavor, too bad."

Sherlock felt strange after walking away from the man. It wasn't like him at all to be giving to someone.  
'Sherlock. Remember. Sociopath.'  
It just sparked memories of him sitting in a pile of snow in an alleyway, starved and high, waking up to his own note and tea. "Second chances, brother mine." Sherlock hated the sentiment, but he kept the note and thermos. He loathed the way it made him well up in emotions when he took it out of storage. Of course, Mycroft never said anything about the event, nor did Sherlock, but in a way, it mended their bond somewhat. 

He hadn't realised he'd been taking so long until another beep came from his mobile. 

If you are still alive or have not been kidnapped please repond 

Sherlock sighed.  
**Respond, Lestrade. Why would I be dead? -SH  
Oh thank god you are look at the time mate

Sherlock, again, wanted to punch the man for texting so sloppily, but ignored it. Glancing at the time, he felt his brow furrow. 'Five? I've been out for two hours?' He then, also realised that he was completely going to opposite direction from Lestrade's office. "Damn, why am I so distracted?" He swung around and hailed a cab. "Scotland Yard!" He barked, hoping that the cabbie would hurry, thinking that he was a police officer. 

Sally was waiting for him when he got out of the cab. "Good god, this day keeps getting worse." He muttered under his breath, paying and propping his collar up as he walked towards the police woman. "Hullo, Freak!" She said, sarcastically cheerful. Sherlock tipped his head. "So kind of you to wait upon my arrival. Couldn't get anywhere without me, I don't doubt." Sally scowled at him. "Lestrade's orders. Nice to know you have fun working with murders, homicides, suicides, and kidnappings. I wonder why."

When Sherlock ignored her and continued walking into the building, she continued. "Having nightmares?" She taunted, trying to find something to use against him. Sherlock paused and his breath caught, but he recovered quickly. "Of course not, I'm not some pathetic mundane dull creature like you." Sally grinned. "Don't worry, Psychopath. We've got it on tape. Nearly the whole Yard's been laughing about it for days." Sherlock gritted his teeth and walked inside, closing the elevator door before she could enter and tease him in there as well. 

Lestrade seemed relieved to see Sherlock. "We couldn't get a peep outa him, I need you to try and deduce things about him. Name, stuff like that." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Who?"  
"I told Donovan to fill you in...?'  
Sherlock snorted. "Well, you fill me in. Don't be boring."

"Alright. We are working with someone we think worked with Moriarty, but we can't be sure. He's Serbian, and--" Lestrade paused when he saw the look of utter horror on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock...? C'mon, mate, what's wrong?" Sherlock tried to shake it off. "Nothing. Just... nothing. So he is... Serbian. And?" Sherlock fought a look of bored calm on his face, and hoped Lestrade didn't press the issue further.  
He didn't. At least, not out loud. 

Greg Lestrade was definitely not as smart as Sherlock or Mycroft, but that is comparing him to geniuses. Compared to the rest of Scotland Yard and 'normal' people, he was rather smart indeed, far more than Sherlock gave credit to him for. So he could easily put together two and two.  
Sherlock has nightmares while screaming in Serbian. So something happened to him in Serbia. We are interrogating a Serbian, so Sherlock is having memories spring out at him about the place. 

Of course, that wasn't true at all, but it was a rather good deduction on the detective inspector's part.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was trying not to panic. There wasn't even a remote reason to panic. It's just like how Moriarty was Irish. Does he hate the Irish now? Of course not. It was illogical and unreasonable, and Sherlock wanted to punch his fast-working-over-exaggerating brain.  
But he still worried.

So, Lestrade continued. "We found him in London, killed five people, then beat seven others up pretty badly. We haven't even figured out his name. He's around fifty, male, obviously... as I said, we haven't figured out a lot. He seems rather quiet. Too quiet, for my likes, yah know?" Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. "Yes, yes. So you want me to interrogate him, deduce him, all that?" Greg nodded. "Should be pretty simple for you. Given that it's hard for all of us combined, you know." Sherlock smiled. "Yes, it should."

Fifteen floors down, twelve insults to Anderson, five to Sally, and two unintentional ones to Molly Hooper later, they arrived at the cell door. Sherlock grinned. "Showtime." He muttered excitedly, and unlocked the door.

The man was in a straightjacket, strapped to a char. His head was hanging, and the room suddenly blew a gust of dark, damp, seemingly chilling air and Sherlock shut the door. It seemed twelve times darker. Sherlock began walking towards the man, slowly, loudly, so he would save the man the embarrassment of being woken or surprised. Sherlock paused five feet in front of the man, who finally looked up. As he did, his entire face lit up like a lightbulb.

In heavy Serbian, he nearly whispered, "Remember sleep?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. Well, I suppose it really isn't a cliffhanger since you all know... But I hoped you all liked it! I tried to make Sherlock in character and the chapter a whole lot longer than the first one, but you never know. Thanks for all the hits, comments, and kudos! The next chapter won't be so rushed. I just had to get into the story plot a bit more. Hope none of the characters were too OOC!


	3. Mrs. Hudson is not their Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets Viktor Markovic officially, Sherlock is a brilliant detective but a bloody awful human being, and John comes by for a visit to 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen cups of tea, three awful days without sleeping, listening to violin music on repeat, drawing kawaii jellyfish, and accidentally deleting the first draft of this chapter after it was complete. (SO BLOODY FRUSTRATING.) That's what it took to get this chapter started. XD  
> (Philip Glass' Violin Concerto haunting and beautiful! I strongly suggest looking it up!)
> 
> I want to thank everyone for all the comments and kudos! They've raised dramatically over the past few days and I am amazed others actually read my fanfiction... :3 Thanks, anyway.

Sherlock was not one for feeling surprise, fear, horror, or shock.   
Yet, for some reason, ever since 'The Fall', as Moriarty had called it, he had nearly felt it all the time. It was awful, the way his mind seemed to whir to a stop and went completely blank.  
He loathed the way it made his breath catch and his hands tremble. The way his eyes widened and he stiffened. The way he felt flashbacks coming on.

But this wasn't a flashback, oh, no.

This was sickeningly real.

And Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment.

The Serbian continued grinning up at him, in a way that made Sherlock feel like _he_ was the one in a straightjacket, the vulnerable one. "Y...you..." Sherlock inwardly kicked himself for stuttering like an idiot. He quickly composed himself. Blinking, he began again, this time in Serbian.   
"What is your name?" The man only grinned wider. "Why would I tell you, filth?" 

"I'm not the one with seven trained, armed snipers aiming their guns at me." Sherlock responded, looking around the room critically. This response made the man raise both his eyebrows. "But you were once, isn't that right, thief?"  
Sherlock ignored that.

"I wouldn't try to attempt putting 'fear' into my heart or getting me on a flashback. How dull. As for the past, I happen to have a rather high tolerance for pain, and what happened no longer stays with me. I had nearly forgotten, honestly." Sherlock put on his mask of indifference and inspected the wall thoroughly. The man tilted his head. "That's rather rude, don't you think? After I did so much to help you remember... all that kicking and starvation, hitting with the pipe... remember water boarding?" Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, but continued talking. Luckily, his shut eyes couldn't be seen in the dark of the cell. 

And truth was, he did remember... _The sickening feeling of hanging, water, drowning, trying to gasp for air but only sucking in water... feeling the pipe bang into his bones, making horrible crunching noises. Bloody flowing down his back, sweat rolling down his face, never having felt so hungry before..._

"Hmm... nope, don't remember. Now, what is your name?" Sherlock was quickly growing irritated and his fear was replaced with a slight sickness of memories slowly rising. He just had to keep fighting it down. 

"Alright... let's strike us a deal, shall we? Just to make things a bit more interesting." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Typical. You tell me everything in exchange for what? Freedom? Life? Protection? Ugh, tedious." His past torturer smiled. "Oh, no. We couldn't have the little thief get bored, now, could we? I don't want _protection_ , I want _information_. Information, on you, little thief." 

Sherlock thought for a moment. If he could get the information off this man, then never have to see him again, then so be it. _It's just another case, Sherlock._

"Alright. First things first. Name, now." Sherlock replied, sounding impressively bored. The Serbian grinned wildly.   
"Viktor Markovic." Sherlock quickly stored that away in his mind palace and cocked his head, almost smugly. "And your question about me?" 

"Right. I want to know your name, little thief. I am guessing the one you told us back in Serbia was fake, eh?" Sherlock snorted. "Brilliant deduction, Anderson." Viktor frowned. "What?" Sherlock waved it away. "Your stupidity reminds me of someone else." Viktor scowled at him, but Sherlock ignored it. "The name is Sherlock." Sherlock inwardly winced, remembering the first time he met John, saying the exact same thing.

"Sherlock... Well, little Sherlock thief, do you have a last name? You know, I've known quite a few Sherlocks..." Viktor asked, grin slowly rising on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if to say, _You don't know? You really are an idiot._ "Sherlock Holmes. Try finding that name anywhere else." Viktor narrowed his eyes, thinking about something hard. Probably dull.

"Welcome to London, Viktor Markovic." 

 

Lestrade was waiting anxiously for Sherlock near the entrance. If Sherlock wouldn't get anything out of this Serbian man, then he was pretty sure no one could. "What'd you learn? What happened?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was quite simple, really." Greg sighed. "I'll need a bit more than your bragging, Sherlock." Sherlock shrugged and got on with it.

"His name is Viktor Markovic, he's lived in Serbia his entire life but knows a small portion of English. He divorced his wife around three years ago when he suspected that she was having an affair with a neighbour. He has experience with... interrogating... people. His mother had a history with alcohol, his father was probably physically abusive, and he had two sisters that died."

Lestrade was trying (and failing) to conceal his surprise that Sherlock had learned all that in less than a two hours. "Blimey! You learned all that from one meeting?" Sherlock shrugged, and didn't mention the fact that most of that came from three years ago in a cell while being beaten with an old pipe. Lestrade seemed impressed. "Viktor Markovic, huh? Well, if you don't mind continuing these, err... meetings for a while..." Sherlock sighed, obviously having had enough of stupid dull humans for awhile. "Obviously, Graham. Well, I have things I have to do, if you don't mind."

"It's Greg!" Lestrade shouted angrily at the retreating form of the detective, but couldn't keep the smile off his face. "What's with you?" Sally asked, smiling at how pleased the DI looked. "It's just... Sherlock... he's back, I think." Sally furrowed her eyebrows and looked in the direction he had walked away. "Freak really is odd. But I suppose he is a rather good interrogator." Lestrade didn't say anything, but Sally continued. "To be honest, he isn't that bad of a _detective_." Sally had been confused after Sherlock had panicked in Greg's office. Her first feeling was being irritated, then genuine concern, but that eventually ebbed away into something that she could use against him. He was a sociopath, right?

That didn't stop her from continuing. "Horrible, awful, sadistic bastard of a human being, obviously, but a bloody brilliant detective."

 

Sherlock was rather pleased. He didn't feel afraid of Viktor at the moment. Well, not as much. Not when he knew his name and he knew he was locked away in a cell somewhere. He had managed to get information off of the Serbian that Scotland Yard couldn't get in over a week. For years, Serbia and torture and Viktor Markovic had haunted his every move, his every thought, his dreams and mind palace.

It seemed his demons had left him in peace for a while.

It took Sherlock nearly half an hour of walking back to the flat to realise how much he hated being in an optimistic mood. He managed to put a scowl on his face and glare at everyone he saw as he walked back to baker street, taking in every negative thing he could. _Too bright, too cold, too much snow, too many dull people, that man has an affair, those kids are running away from an abusive uncle while their parents are on holiday, too many citizens are smiling._ After five minutes of thinking in this rather horrible, odd way, he smiled. 

He felt like Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath once again.

Mrs. Hudson was thrilled, oh, absolutely thrilled when Sherlock moved the head out of the fridge. Yes, it was because Sherlock needed to experiment on it, not because he was trying to be helpful, but it worked out alright and Mrs. Hudson was happy so Sherlock went along with it. 

After taking hair and tear duct samples off of the head, he placed them both into glass panels and slid them under the microscope. He had been at it for at least an hour, finding DNA and taking blood tests, getting giddy as he examined the eyes.

Everything was going near perfect. 

Then John decided that he had to come over.

Sherlock had been on thin ice with John since they had left the train carriage (or car, as a train enthusiast would know...) with the bomb inside. John had forgiven him, obviously, and they weren't under any stress or fighting, no, none of that. They just hadn't talked since that day, and Sherlock was beginning to realise that John had a life now, with Mary. He had a family away from 221B and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. There would be no 'John and Sherlock'. No more posts on John's blog about their adventures together. There would be no more coming to crimes with John, or doing the cliché, running after criminals through alleyways in the near pitch black dark of night. No more John. 

Those days were over.

He had finally accepted that John had left. 

He had finally gotten over the fact that he was an unlovable sociopath that would never have 'friends'. 

Then John had to march back in.

Politely. And not actually marching. And rather timidly, to be honest.

When Mrs. Hudson gave a squeal from downstairs and started near skipping up the stairs, Sherlock sighed. He wanted to be left alone, for god's sake. "Sherlock! Sherlock, it's John! Come on Sherlock, enough experimenting on that poor old head, stop making a mess! Sherlock, you have to come talk to him!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, but when John appeared behind Mrs. Hudson, looking lost and rather uncomfortable, Sherlock closed his eyes briefly in realisation. "Mrs. Hudson, tea, if you don't mind?" 

Mrs. Hudson was not their housekeeper. She was their landlady. But just that once.

As soon as she left, Sherlock turned back to his microscope, leaving John to wonder what to say or do. After a while, John finally nodded slowly. "How have things been?" Sherlock didn't look up. "Wonderful." He answered curtly. John frowned. "Have you been eating lately?" At this, Sherlock did look up. He couldn't fight off the anger seeping into his face.  
"God, John! You left for over a month, no contact, at all, and then one day you come back in like nothing happened and get mad at me for my eating habits?" 

At least John had the decency to look guilty.

"Sorry for the radio silence, Sherlock... really. That's why I'm here. I wanted to keep in contact." Sherlock collected himself and looked blankly at John. "Fine." He said quietly, and turned back to his microscope. John scowled at him.

Then, after about two minutes of horrible, miserable silence, John exploded.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry, alright?! I'm trying to keep calm too, okay? You know, it's really hard, actually, thinking that you are the cause of your flatmate's suicide for three fucking years! Then you come back, expecting me to drop everything I've built up, a family, a job, Mary, to come back and risk my bloody life for you nearly every day of my life! I'm trying not to yell or get mad about it! While you played hide and seek with Moriarty and his web thing, I had to recover from PTSD, a limp, a bad shoulder, my friend's suicide, two breakups, and plenty of nightmares, thank you for asking!" Sherlock wasn't looking at his microscope, he had a dead look in his eyes and was looking down at the floor, looking more tired and exhausted and... broken then John had ever seen him. 

John tried to control his breathing, knowing that he should not have burst yelling like that. He felt guilty, but was still rather upset that Sherlock was just sitting there. Finally, after what felt like years of nothing, Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, John." 

John was taken aback. He froze, wondering if that was _emotion_ and _sentiment_ he just heard. The most heartfelt, heart wrenching three words John had ever heard. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, but wouldn't look up at John.

"I wasn't playing hide and seek. Taking down Moriarty's web wasn't easy. I am truly sorry I made you feel like you were the reason I did suicide. However, it was the reason I _faked_ my suicide." 

John frowned. "You faked your suicide for me?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, groaning quietly. "Look, John, I really don't want to talk about any of this. I know that the past years have been horrible for you and my return just made things worse. I really wasn't going to come back, I just thought you wanted me to."

John sat down before he fell down. "Sherlock... wait... what?! You... what?!"

Sherlock leaned back, sucking in a sharp breath. "I wasn't going to come back. I knew you'd move on eventually and start having a normal life with a good family and do normal people things that don't get you injured or sick or stuck with a sociopathic flatmate freak who solves crimes as a way to avoid getting high on drugs and overdosing. I knew that my return wasn't going to help anything... but when you visited my grave... you asked for me to stop being dead. Of course, I couldn't until I had dismantled the entire web, but I thought you'd want me to come back."

Sherlock gave a soft snort after a moment. "Be careful what you wish for, John. I warned you."

John was horrified. Absolutely horrified that Sherlock thought that was what he meant. "Jesus, Sherlock... god, no..." (Internally wincing, those were close to the words John said after Sherlock jumped.) "Sherlock, I... Jesus... I never take that back. I never want you out of my life, Sherlock. Mary makes me happy, more than you ever could, of course," Sherlock frowned at this, and John hurriedly continued. "But she doesn't make me feel alive. Not the way you do. I need her because I need some ordinary person in my life, to equal out the bloody hurricane that is you. And Sherlock, I promise, I never meant that I wanted you to go. I need that hurricane. I need you, Sherlock. You are my best friend." 

Sherlock was speechless. He wasn't expecting that. Not after John had just yelled at him. There was a few moments of silence. 

"I missed you, John." That made John smile. "I missed you more, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned and began going through the cabinets, looking for something specific. John decided it was now or never. "So what was that about faking your death for me?" John asked, laughing. Sherlock groaned loudly, but continued sorting through the kitchen. "God... ask Mycroft."

John quirked a smile. "Maybe I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this chapter is longer than it looks while I'm writing it... I am hoping for longer chapters. I also hope this chapter made a bit more sense then I think it does. I also love constructive criticism. <3
> 
> (A bit of non-slash fluff at the end. :3)


	4. Anderson Writes Harry Potter Fanfiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Freak, sentiment, thoughts, another Viktor Markovic interrogation (or the start of one), lots of texting, and Anderson does some fangirlish things. Like writing fanfiction and doing cosplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupid, stupid English. I am such an idiot. Right after I promised to update weekly too... It's been a little over a month, right? Oh gosh, I'm horrible.
> 
> I really hope this chapter is longer! I've just been quite stressed with my Maths finals. Love you all! <3

Sherlock honestly wasn't used to all the caring attention he was getting. It was irking him, especially Sally and Anderson's quiet stares instead of loud insufferable insults. 

He never thought he'd miss getting called a Freak.

All throughout his childhood, his peers had called him a freak. Mycroft had, even Mummy and Father had, even though they were joking about it. Mrs. Hudson said it lovingly, Sally and Anderson said it as if he was literally the scum of the Earth. Molly Hooper was never that cruel, but there were moments where Sherlock was a bit not good and she snapped.

_"You look tired... have you been sleeping, Sherlock?" Molly asked, irritated. "I don't want you collapsing in the middle of a--"_

_"Molly, I suggest changing your hair before your date arrives, stop fussing about me or rather **flirting** with me and finish up your paperwork quickly because I'm on a case and I'd rather not talk about my sleeping habits."_

Like I said, a bit not good. 

_Molly's face turned bright red. "S-Sherlock! God, why are you so... so... horrible! To me...? To everyone...! It's true! What they say about you, you are a freak! Just... stop it! Stop!" And with that, she ran out of the room._

Sherlock had been a bit rude. But the fact was, Molly had joined in. If she had called him an idiot, psychopath, sociopath, stupid, git, tosser, heartless, anything but Freak, Sherlock wouldn't have been so hurt.

Because Sherlock was heartless, he was a sociopath... and he was okay with that. But Sherlock was also a freak.

When he was growing up he always thought it made him special, his brain. He knew he was a freak, but he didn't think it was bad. He knew he was different, but he didn't think it was a bad thing. When kids called him a freak as an insult he rolled his eyes and started listing off their class schedules, how many bad grades they had, and other obvious things about their lives.

Apparently, sharing the secrets of kids who insult and bully you don't make them like you any more.

Sherlock began unconsciously tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair, thinking about it all. Why Uni and all of school had been so difficult. Why he had no friends.

Well, before John.

Lestrade was never his friend. Lestrade had always been more of a father to him after he tried to overdose. Lestrade was always there, telling him to ignore the insults, making sure he slept once a week and ate every few days. He was constantly checking to make sure he was clean. Safe. Not kidnapped, killed, stabbed, shot, in shock, hurt, running off, saying the wrong things.

Then again, Lestrade missed the most obvious one- PTSD and torture. Sherlock was honestly surprised the detective inspector hadn't caught on. Without meaning to, Sherlock had left painfully obvious hints. 

But John wasn't like Lestrade. Not even from the beginning. Instead of helping him ignore insults, John insulted the one who did it. John made sure he ate every day, no excuses. He dug through his things until he found the hidden stash of drugs and syringes. He was always worried about him. John was a friend, because even when he got mad, he always continued coming back to 221B.

That is, until Sherlock faked his own suicide in front of him, went off for three years acquiring post traumatic stress disorder and a few (a lot) new injures on his back. (Gashes, really. Pipes, whips, waterboarding, the whole thing.)

Sherlock closed his eyes, his back feeling very uncomfortable whilst rubbing against the back of the chair. His mind told him to deal with it. The piece of his heart that wasn't solid ice told him to ask Molly for help. 

He decided to follow his mind and try to relax for five seconds. He was rather tired.

Going nearly a week without sleeping does that to you.

It had only been five minutes when his phone beeped. Gritting his teeth, he snatched it off the counter.

**Interrogation needed. Scotland yard ASAP. -GL**

_Your texting skills have improved. Coming. -SH_

**Actually this is Sgt Emily Aspen. Greg wanted me to text you for him.**

_Ah. Who is Greg? I thought we were talking about Gavin Lestrade. -SH_

**Just come. Scotland yard.**

Sherlock frowned. He was missing something. "John I--" He paused, then glanced at his skull. _He was missing John._ "I really hope I'm not stuck talking to you again. I've gone all picky with my partners after being with John. I think he spoiled me rotten." 

Sherlock hailed a cab, this time, instead of walking to the Yard, and was there in less then twenty minutes. Molly was waiting for him this time, while Sally and Anderson were nowhere to be seen--thank god. 

"Hi!" She called, a little anxiously. Sherlock scanned her over in a couple of seconds. 

No makeup, that was odd, so no date or she rushed to work this morning. But her clothes say otherwise- nice... too nice for work. About to go on break, so obviously a lunch date. Meaning she was rushing to work this morning. Also, going by the tea stain on her elbow that she can't see, she was leaning on the counter meaning she didn't have time to sit down. Stressed, lots of paperwork? Or no sleep... which was positively it because there were dark bags under her eyes and her lids were half down. She looked almost drunk. Party yesterday? Probably catching up with her... parents? No, father dead. She already talked about that. Mother, then. 

"How is your mother?" Sherlock asked without hesitation. Molly looked confused. "My mum? She's... good. Why do you ask?" 

Sherlock quickly deduced again. She was genuinely confused. Could be the alcohol hangover paying off, but most likely she wasn't with her mother. Then brother or sister. But she never talks bout her sister, so they probably don't keep in touch. Sister probably in America, but her brother lives in Whales... doesn't see her often, but they do keep in touch. 

"Just thought when you caught up with your brother yesterday you'd be seeing her as well. No?" 

Molly Hooper's eyes went wide. "How did you-- wait. Nevermind. Er... well, Mum was going to come but she couldn't make it. My brother, well, he lives in Whales. Don't see him much so it was a bit of a reunion. But you already knew that, didn't you?" She gave a weak smile, not letting Sherlock answer. 

"I wouldn't start deducing that man in the cell..." She shivered and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What's his name? Victor? He was in a foul mood, Greg tried talking to him and all Victor did was spit out and scream at him. You should be careful, yeah?" 

Sherlock blinked. There was a long moment of awkward silence and Molly started turning red. "Or not." 

Another long moment. 

"...Alright, er... follow me, I... um, know how to get to the cell. I mean, so do you, but, er, I... Greg sent me to wait for you. To come. So I could, um, show you. Where Victor is." 

Sherlock faintly smiled, half amused at the stuttering girl. Molly's ears turned red and she began muttering apologies and hurried into the building. 

Molly was not kidding when she said that Viktor was a spitting, screaming berserk. He was strapped into his straightjacket and a metal chair nailed to the floor with thick leather straps, his face was nearly purple, he was biting and stomping and lashing out as best he could, and if the devil took a mortal form, Sherlock was sure he was looking at it. 

Lestrade was relieved when Sherlock came briskly in, his Belstaff coat swirling around his legs and his curls slightly bouncing. He looked incredibly mysterious. And unhealthy. His cheekbones seemed to poke into his skin too hard, his coat was far to big... or he was getting to thin, (most likely), there were huge, dark circles under his eyes and he looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in days.

"Sherlock, mate, you alright there?" Sherlock only answered with a brisk nod. "When can I go in?" Lestrade sighed and threaded fingers through his hair. "Well, he seems to be hyperventilating, so we have to sedate him. When he wakes up, we need you to interrogate him, ask him what was going on, etc. Got it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dull. But I'll do it."

All they had left to do was wait until the drug wore off, but for now, they would wait. 

Sherlock and Lestrade were still sitting there when Anderson came down, wearing a Gryffindor robe set and scarf, with Harry Potter glasses and a red marker scar on his forehead, his hair ruffled and his shoes scuffed, carrying a laptop and a light-up wand. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and Lestrade covered his mouth to keep from snorting out in hysterics. 

"I heard Sherlock was going to interrogate the hostage. Couldn't miss it, even though I was busy." Anderson mumbled, sinking into a chair and starting up his laptop. Greg finally moved his hand. "Anderson, you... bloody hell, you were dressing up as Harry Potter? Why?!" 

"It's Cosplay!" Anderson snapped angrily, starting to type furiously on the laptop. "And Harry Potter happens to be one of the best and most popular fandoms, for your information! It's _anything_ but 'dress up'." Lestrade didn't say anything else, just shook his head as if he couldn't believe it. Anderson was still furiously typing away at the keyboard. Sherlock had a perfect view of the laptop screen, and watched him type for a while. The website URL said 'Fanfiction Archive'. Harry had to do something. If Snape found out about this, He, Hermione and Ron were going to get expelled from Hogwarts! So he slowly crept out of the cellar and walked downstairs. He could've just taken a shortcut, but the moving staircases were funner.

Sherlock coughed. "More fun, Anderson. Not funner."

Anderson scowled at him. "I was about to fix that." He started retyping the paragraph and turned the screen away so Sherlock couldn't look.

Sherlock pretended that he hadn't noticed that Anderson's Fanfiction Archive username was @SherlockLives55.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XD I have no idea what the hell happened in the last scene with Anderson being a Harry Potter fanboy... whatever. There isn't going to be much on it, I just totally see Philip Anderson as doing cosplay and writing fanfiction and stuff. 
> 
> Oh, Emily Aspen is just someone who works at Scotland Yard, an OC of mind, no worries. She isn't important, just someone for me to use if I need someone from the Yard to do something. XD Hehe. 
> 
> Next chapter will come sooner, I think that writers block I had is now gone! Hurray for that! See you all later! <3


End file.
